to the heart; and they do tell such stories of
the nurses at the Union, that it does seem hard to send him there, such
an innocent boy, too, and one that doesn't seem to know how to believe it
if one says a kind word to him.' The tears were in Mrs. King's eyes as
she went on: 'I do wish to let him stay here and do what I can for him,
with all my heart, and so does all the children, but I don't hardly know
what's right by them, poor things. If the parish would but allow him
just one shilling and sixpence a week out of the house, I think I could
do it.'

'What, with your own boy in such a state, you could undertake to nurse a
stranger through a rheumatic fever!'

'It wouldn't make much difference, Sir,' said Mrs. King. 'You see I am
up a good deal most nights with Alfred, and we have fire and candle
almost always alight. I should only be glad to do it for a poor
motherless lad like that, except for the cost; and I thought perhaps if
you could speak to the Guardians, they might allow him ever so little,
because there will be expenses.'

Mr. Cope had not much hope from the parish, so he said, 'Mr. Shepherd
ought to do something for him after he has worked for him so long. He
has been looking wretchedly ill for some time past; and I dare say half
this illness is brought on by such lodging and living as he got there.
But what did you say about some eggs?'

Mrs. King told him; and he stood a moment thoughtful, then said, 'Well,
I'll go and see about it,' and strode across to the farm.

When Mr. Cope came back, Ellen was serving a customer. He stood looking
redder than they had ever seen him, and tapping the toe of his boot
impatiently with his stick; and the moment the buyer had turned away, he
said, 'Ellen, ask your mother to be kind enough to come down.'

Mrs. King came, and found the young Curate in such a state of
indignation, as he could not keep to himself. He had learnt more than he
had ever known, or she had ever known, of the oppression that the farmer
and his wife and Tom Boldre had practised on the friendless stranger, and
he was burning with all the keen generous displeasure of one new to such
base ways. At the gate he had met, going home to dinner, John Farden
with Mrs. Hayward, who had been charing at the farm. Both had spoken
out, and he had learned how far below the value of his labour the boy had
been paid, how he had been struck, abused, and hunted about, as would
never have been done to one who